


Majoring in Drama

by qwanderer



Series: in the habit of saving the world [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adam meets Warlock, Birthday Party, College Age Them, Fluff, Fun, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: It had occurred to Aziraphale that given the Brother Francis disguise, Warlock might be somewhat shocked at Aziraphale’s true appearance. It had not occurred to Aziraphale to prepare for the reverse.Warlock, even aside from having grown half again taller than his eleven-year-old height, had grown a ponytail. And a beard. And he was wearing eyeliner.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: in the habit of saving the world [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506125
Comments: 13
Kudos: 248





	Majoring in Drama

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this series can be read as one-shots but for this one you probably want to read at least the previous two works for the background on my version of the Them.

Aziraphale was thrilled (but also somewhat bewildered) to learn that Warlock had made friends with Pepper in some way that involved the internet, had found out who and what the two of them actually were, and was now coming back from America to spend three weeks in their guest room and join in the weekend and birthday festivities with Them.

In the few years since the world hadn’t ended, Aziraphale’s interactions with Warlock had all taken place in the form of what had begun as a series of small birthday and Christmas presents (with perhaps somewhat lengthy notes in the cards) and the resulting thank-you notes and replies, but which had evolved into a genuine regular correspondence in pen and ink. He was vaguely aware that Warlock and Crowley engaged in something similar over the devices that humans had somewhat inexplicably kept calling “phones” even after they came to be used for anything  _ but _ actual real-time voice communication, for preference. 

It had occurred to Aziraphale that given the Brother Francis disguise, Warlock might be somewhat shocked at Aziraphale’s true appearance. It had not occurred to Aziraphale to prepare for the reverse. 

Warlock, even aside from having grown half again taller than his eleven-year-old height, had grown a ponytail. And a beard. And he was wearing eyeliner.

His eyes went wide for a moment when Aziraphale opened the door of the cottage, but his expression quickly turned to an enormous grin. “Aziraphale! It’s been too long!”

There was the name, too - young Warlock had never known it - and his voice had changed dramatically as well. Aziraphale liked to think he had a fair grasp on the ephemerality of human life and appearance - he’d known the Them for their last few years of rapid evolution, after all - but this was all so sudden. 

“Oh my goodness,” he said. “Warlock. Can it really be you?”

“In the flesh,” Warlock agreed. “Is Nanny here too?”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course, come in,” Aziraphale said, belatedly removing himself from the doorway and gesturing Warlock inside. “They’re just in the kitchen.”

Warlock strode in, swinging a large duffel along with him, and Aziraphale could pinpoint the exact moment Crowley showed up in the doorway by the very familiar expression that crossed Warlock’s face. This was their Warlock, he could see it now, plain as day.

“Hello, Nanny,” Warlock said, and although his voice was still in the lower register of a young man who had shot up like a sapling, he somehow contrived to sound small.

Crowley didn’t speak for a moment or two, but Aziraphale could hear their breath do something funny in their chest. 

“Hello, Warlock,” Crowley said, and it was perhaps the softest tone Aziraphale had ever heard them use.

The two simply stood and looked at each other for a moment more, and then their equally long strides closed the distance between them in what felt like the blink of an eye, and they were hugging each other tightly, so tightly that Aziraphale wondered whether he ought to fear for Warlock’s ribs - or even, possibly, Crowley’s.

“Missed you,” Crowley murmured as they finally pulled away.

Warlock opened and closed his mouth and made aborted little noises, as if he were so full of words that they’d all rushed to get out at once and gotten stuck. It gave Aziraphale the strange feeling that he was somehow looking at two slightly different copies of Crowley.

“Uh,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale stepped forward to say, “Let me show you around.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “It’s, uh. Place. Our place.”

Warlock laughed, but it was gentle. “You were always a bit like this around Brother Francis.”

“Mmf,” Crowley agreed. “Yeah. Well. Yeah.” They reached for Aziraphale’s hand and tangled their fingers together, and Aziraphale happily responded with a little squeeze. 

He chatted happily about the shared collection of objects in the lounge, and the mostly-his collection of objects in the library. “I own a bookshop in London, you know,” he told Warlock. “I had such trouble picking out a selection of favorite volumes to bring with me to the cottage when we moved in together.”

“I’d say it feels like half the shop,” Crowley commented, “but somehow the shop feels just as cluttered as it did before.”

Aziraphale pointed out the kitchen and bathroom, their bedroom and Crowley’s painting studio, the only door in the cottage which was habitually closed even when no one was in the room.

“Nanny, you paint?” Warlock asked with wide eyes. “That’s so cool! Can I see?”

Crowley froze for just a moment, and then their nose wrinkled, and they said, “Ehh.”

Aziraphale watched them both closely, afraid that Warlock might be inclined to push, as he’d been inclined to do as a child, but instead the young man’s expression visibly softened. 

“I understand if you don’t want to,” Warlock said. “I’m going to major in drama. Art’s like that sometimes. Reminds me of how it feels to listen to your own voice recorded and played back.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, shoulders unspooling from where they’d hunched up tight. “But Warlock? Ask again in a couple days, all right?”

“Yeah,” Warlock agreed, smiling.

Aziraphale gave them a moment before gesturing up the attic stairs and saying, “You’ll be staying up here.”

“Not as much space as you used to have,” Crowley warned. 

“Eh, I’ve been sharing a dorm room,” Warlock said. “This’ll be no problem.” He bounded up the stairs. “Oh, this is actually really rad,” he called down, even though, when the other two came up to join him, they noticed he was a little tall for the way the ceiling slanted in as it rose.

Crowley subtly snapped their fingers to give the whole cottage another inch or two. The cottage was used to this by now - this attic had started its life as barely more than a crawlspace, and was now almost a full third floor.

“Don’t even try to put anything in the closet,” Crowley warned, “it’s already full. Even though the attic storage is  _ supposed _ to be across the way.” They shot Aziraphale a significant look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Aziraphale protested, “it’s not all mine! Some of it is yours. Or perhaps Jess’s. It can be difficult to tell your things apart sometimes.”

Crowley waved their hand desultorily. “They borrow my things enough that I don’t know how much difference it makes. This is Jess’s room, more often than not, so if something of mine is in here, it’s probably because they borrowed it. You, on the other hand, have no excuse.”

From where he was sitting on the bed rifling through his bag, Warlock snorted and said, “You’re so married.”

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye in a look that had a great deal in it, acceptance and rueful humor and bone-deep contentment. “It’s been pointed out,” he admitted.

He wasn’t sure if one or the other of them reached out first, or if, simply spontaneously, their fingers were tangled together in a comfortable squeeze.

Warlock frowned. “Wait.  _ Are _ you married?”

“Technically,” Aziraphale said, “we are engaged on an indefinite basis. We wouldn’t have had a wedding without inviting you.”

Crowley snickered and threw their arm around Aziraphale. “Face it, Angel, we’re more married than most married people.” 

Aziraphale thwapped them gently, but leaned into their embrace regardless.

“So you _ have _ been together for a long time,” Warlock guessed.

“We have been… something,” Aziraphale admitted. “Someone at one of Crowley’s art exhibitions asked us how long we’d been married. And I realized I didn’t have an accurate answer, because saying, ‘Oh, we aren’t married’ felt as much like a lie as anything else.”

“I told you it was complicated,” Crowley said to Warlock. “...Look. You’ve read Romeo and Juliet, right?”

“Are you comparing one of the shortest courtships in literature to one of the longest courtships on Earth?” Aziraphale complained.

“Only so I can explain properly why we couldn’t rush,” Crowley argued. “Consequences would have been similar. Even after Armageddon, we could have died for choosing each other over our old sides, if we hadn’t known each other so very well.”

“...That’s fair,” Warlock said. “So, are you going to have a wedding while I’m still alive to see it?”

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

“I hope so,” Aziraphale said.

“We’ll get there,” Crowley promised.

“Well, I don’t want to be pushy,” Warlock said, “but what’s stopping you now?”

Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. “It’s difficult,” they said, “letting yourself have something that you’ve been holding back from for thousands of years.”

“One falls back on old habits, you see,” Aziraphale said slowly. “In some ways we've been friends for so long we don't know how to be anything else.”

“And in a lot of ways,” Crowley added, “it doesn't matter what we are, officially, we still feel the same way about each other.” 

Their expression was so gentle it nearly made Aziraphale want to cry.

“Well, that makes sense,” Warlock said. “There’s no rush. But just in case you don’t hear it enough? You’re allowed to have a party. You’re allowed to celebrate how far you’ve come, and make a fuss, and have a day that’s all about you.” He nodded, for emphasis.

It sounded suspiciously like something Crowley might have said to the boy, once upon a time. And yes, it helped.

The new Warlock was becoming familiar, and although Aziraphale had loved him as a child, he found he liked him better as a man. 

Aziraphale wasn't sure what that said about his influence on the boy, if it said anything at all.

* * *

The Them arrived late the next morning, which was the boys’ birthday.

They came pouring into the house, riding a wave of noise and activity. Aziraphale and Crowley were accustomed to it, but Warlock stopped halfway down the stairs to stare at it all.

Pepper was on a tirade about something, as usual, and Wensleydale had his nose to his phone, looking up facts and statistics for her as she went along. Adam and Jess were both full of questions and encouragement. Brian mostly acted as a cheerleader, taking any excuse to yell and contributing about as much to the conversation as Dog (who was an excellent active listener).

But the moment Adam looked up and noticed Warlock, Pepper widened her eyes, shut her mouth and just watched, and the others followed suit so that the room fell suddenly, eerily silent.

"You’re Adam," Warlock said, and Aziraphale couldn't place the expression on his face, or predict how he would react to this group of people his age who were making themselves thoroughly at home in his nanny's house. Warlock-the-boy would have been jealous. 

Adam’s back straightened, and his eyes narrowed fractionally. “So what if I am?” he asked.

Warlock crossed his arms, looking down his nose at Adam and the others from his perch on the stairs. “Seems like you think you’re a big shot because you’re the leader of this little gang.”

Adam frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe. What are you going to do about it?”

“Maybe it’s time someone shook things up a little, huh?” Warlock said with a faint air of menace.

Pepper leaned over to whisper something in Jess’s ear. Jess nodded in acknowledgement and watched Warlock with interest.

“You can’t do anything to topple my world,” Adam said, the rumble in his voice matching Warlock’s effortlessly. “It’ll never work.”

“You don’t think I could do it?” Warlock narrowed his eyes at Adam.

Adam scoffed. “I really don’t.”

Warlock’s voice began quietly, and very, very gradually inched up in volume as he said, “Do you know how important I am? Do you know what I’ve been raised to do? Do you know who my dad is?”

“Like it matters,” Adam said, somehow both casually as you please and utterly defiant. “Real men make themselves.”

Warlock’s upper lip twitched, threatening to curl into a snarl.

Aziraphale's eyes strayed to Crowley. He couldn't read Crowley's expression past the sunglasses (a rarity these days) but a muscle jumped in his jaw, as if he were restraining himself from doing something.

Warlock stalked down the stairs a step at a time, until he was nearly nose to nose with Adam.

His mouth twitched once more.

Adam abruptly grinned, shaking his head at Warlock, and said, "Pepper was right about you. You're going to fit right in with all us weirdos."

They both laughed, and so did Crowley, a quiet but irrepressible snicker that he'd clearly been holding in until now. Warlock opened his arms and leaned in to hug Adam, and they fell together into the kind of fond, enthusiastic backslapping hug that made it seem as if they had known each other all their lives. 

Which was true, in a way, if you thought about it. 

Aziraphale frowned slightly at the two boys.

Warlock caught his gaze and shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I am majoring in drama.”

“You certainly are,” Pepper said, with a good-natured roll of her eyes. “Told you. Just playing pretend, only with a more grown-up name.”

* * *

The Them were all still settling in with their things when Crowley excused himself to the kitchen, saying something about lunch. Warlock offered to help get lunch ready, so he and Crowley were soon in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a taco bar. Aziraphale bustled about in the background, pretending not to be listening in.

“So what gave you the idea for that performance?” Crowley asked curiously.

“You guys,” Warlock said.

“Really?”

Warlock shrugged. “Everything was over the top with you two. It was with my parents too, but in a different way. Everything was serious, to my parents, or it was worthless. Both of you, you said all these things, all these dramatic, good-and-evil things that always seemed to be posing against each other. But I could tell you loved each other. In a way that was more real to me than anything my parents felt about each other. Or about me, sometimes.”

Crowley hummed in agreement. “We had to be opposed, on the surface. Never felt that way. Not even in the very beginning. Being opposed was never more than a job, in a lot of ways. Only ever got serious because the job wasn’t just life and death, it was the fate of the world.”

“Sometimes I feel like acting the opposite way from how I feel about people because I remember how much more true it felt, shining out from underneath,” Warlock said.

“I get that,” said Crowley. “I like it better, now that we can say what we mean. But I understand.”

There was a quiet moment where all Warlock did was chop peppers in silence, concentrating more fiercely than the task deserved.

“Nanny?” he ventured at last.

“Yes, darling?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about gender and I wanted to ask you some things.”

Crowley smiled down at the tomatoes he was currently dicing. “Ask away.”

“So, I’m pretty sure I’m a guy, that seems right, but I’ve been playing around with gender presentation, you know? I like exploring different looks and freaking people out but I don’t know if I’m going about it the right way.”

“Any way you want to do gender is okay,” Crowley reassured. “There is no right way, and even if some people think there is, you have no obligation to adhere to their expectations.”

“Okay,” said Warlock, “I know there’s no one right way, you taught me that for sure. But I’m worried there’s a wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

“I don't think I should be treating gender like it's a joke. Like it’s one of my acts I’m playing up for comedy.”

“Why not?” Crowley finished with the tomatoes and set his knife aside so that all his attention was on Warlock.

“Because I know how serious it is for some people. I don’t want to make anyone feel like they’re being laughed at.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Well, just don't treat other people's genders as jokes and you should be good then. Your own gender can be whatever you want.”

Warlock made a noise, conveying discomfort, confusion and a little bit of frustration.

Crowley hesitated before he spoke again. “Gender presentation can be about what kind of feelings you want to inspire in others. You like making people laugh. That's part of you. You can do that with your gender if you want. You can be smart and respectful about it. You’ve got enough brains for that.” He was silent for a moment. “What else is bothering you about it?”

“Okay, so, here’s the thing. I think I'm a guy,” Warlock said, “just a regular guy, nothing complicated about that part of it, but when I go to get dressed, well… mostly it turns out I want to be the kind of guy that makes my dad as uncomfortable as physically possible. But also I don't want my gender stuff to be about him.”

“Adam was right,” Crowley said with soft conviction. “People make themselves.”

Warlock frowned thoughtfully, then heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I made my gender stuff and it’s for me. And it’s maybe a little campy. And maybe my dad had something to do with why it’s that way. But so did you and Aziraphale. And so did I, most of all.”

“Yes, you did,” Crowley agreed. “And I’m so proud of you for showing who you are.”

“Thanks, Nanny,” Warlock said.

After a moment, they both reached for the onion. Warlock got to it first, but soon enough, they both had an excuse for the mild sniffling they were doing.

It was a few minutes more before Warlock began talking again, and he’d moved on to grating cheese. He hummed thoughtfully, then said, “I hope it’s okay with Jess. I mean, my whole drama thing, and also with gender stuff, because I know they’re trans and I’m not, so I can’t understand totally how stuff might impact them. Pepper’s only told me a bit, but it sounds like they have a lot of shit going on in their lives and I don’t wanna add to it by making them uncomfortable.”

Crowley shook his head. “You don’t have to tiptoe. Jess doesn’t like a big fuss being made about the whole thing. Just be yourself and Jess will be Jess, and that’s all any of us can do, really.”

Warlock nodded, then grimaced a bit. “Okay, I guess there’s one other reason why I’m not sure how to act around Jess.”

“And what’s that?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised.

“So I know the Them were all there, at Armageddon. But Jess wasn’t. Does Jess know? About... everything?”

Crowley tilted his head a bit in a sort of wiggly shrug. “We didn’t tell them, but they’ve seen a few things not fit for mortal eyes.”

“What kind of things?” Warlock asked.

Crowley straightened up, sighed, and said, “I’d never hurt you, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, ‘course, Nanny.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses. 

“Woah,” Warlock said softly. “I knew you were hiding something under those, but I didn’t think it was anything that cool.”

The yellow gaze darted away self-consciously, but a smile lurked at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “So, Jess has seen these, and our wings, and probably witnessed some miracles when one of us wasn’t being especially careful to hide. They don’t seem bothered. I’d tell them, if they asked. They’re… part of the family.”

“Yeah?” Warlock chewed on his lip. “Jess doesn’t like to rock the boat, huh? Betcha they’re dying to know about it all but doesn’t like to poke their nose into other people’s business because they’d prefer other people don’t poke around in theirs.”

“You think so?” Crowley asked, yellow eyes sparking with interest. “Maybe someone ought to tempt them into asking.”

* * *

Lunch was a rowdy, sociable affair, with many stories told and introductions made. Warlock seemingly made no effort to keep the supernatural elements out of his tale of connecting with Pepper online, which basically meant that the whole mess of Armageddon was rehashed. 

As Warlock talked about finding out that his dear old nanny was actually a genderfluid demon who ate people’s sins for breakfast, Aziraphale kept an eye on Jess. Jess seemed to be not only taking it well, but completely engrossed by the story, watching Warlock eagerly and even asking a question here and there. 

It was actually when Warlock mentioned that Aziraphale was an angel that Jess flinched slightly and cast a glance in the angel’s direction. Aziraphale gave them a small wink and returned his attention to Warlock, who was now going on about his childhood gardener’s absolutely over-the-top insistence on respect for all forms of life.

The conversation went on far past mealtime, and while both Jess and Crowley had half-retreated into their sketchbooks and Aziraphale and Wen both had something on hand to read, they found that they’d barely moved from the table by the time the next mealtime came ‘round. 

After dinner there was cake, and after cake there were presents. Aziraphale gave his out first, both books, of course, well-cared-for old (but not first) editions, but for Warlock it was Oscar Wilde and for Adam it was C. S. Forester.

Crowley’s presents were similar but different as well, both being beautifully-worked metal antiques. Adam’s gift was an old astrolabe, and Warlock received an art deco bracelet with chunky rectangular links. 

The kids exchanged a variety of small presents, including Adam’s gift to Warlock of an official Them membership card - “Ooh, laminated, fancy!” - and Warlock’s gift to Adam, a novelty book about the most haunted places in Britain.

“I brought presents for everyone else, too!” Warlock announced, bringing out more gifts. “I decided, you know what, my favorite part of Christmas these days is giving my friends presents, not getting them. So why shouldn’t I do that part on my birthday too?”

“That’s smart,” Adam says. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

“Feel free to steal my idea next year,” Warlock said.

Most of these presents were small tokens as well, but both Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves holding somewhat hefty boxes.

“Oh, Warlock, you didn’t have to,” Aziraphale said, somewhat astonished at the large box wrapped in cheerful yellow paper that sat in his lap.

“I kinda did,” Warlock said, grinning. “Open ‘em, come on!”

Crowley tore into his gift without hesitation. Inside the black paper was a black box which read, in white letters,  _ Cards Against Humanity.  _ His face lit up with delight as he examined it. “‘A party game for horrible people,’ huh? Are you insinuating something, young man?”

“Nah, just thought you’d like it,” Warlock answered.

“Go on then, Angel,” Crowley prodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Under the yellow paper was a wooden box which, if Aziraphale knew his antiques, which he did, was quite old. Centuries old. Carved into the top neatly were the words  _ For the Principalitee Aziraphael. _

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, staring, his brain suddenly clicking along quite rapidly but not reaching its goal.

“I don’t know what’s in it,” Warlock warned. “I just figured you ought to have it. Since it says.”

Crowley peered at the box. “Oh, you’d better open it,” he murmured. “Don’t want to ignore anything that’s come from _her.”_

Agnes. Right.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers to undo the lock, and opened the box, to find a stack of neat handwritten pages. He stared at the top page for long enough that Crowley snatched it up to read it aloud.

“Greetings, Aziraphael.” Crowley pronounced the period spellings with slightly sarcastic emphasis. “Herein is my second volume of Nice and Accurate Prophecies. My descendant Anathema must not be told that thou art in possession of this worke. To her I hath bequeathed a sheaf of empty pages in the guise of these revelations, that she might burn them and be free. But you, Principalitee, now that you hath faced the flames of Hell and becom free of your own bindings, you are no longer such a foole and will cherish this book well, I knoe.” He raised his eyebrows at Warlock. “Give to the good Warlock boy an excess bisquite as his reward for carrying this package faithfullie, as I have no more coin to send my messengers. -Agnes Nutter.”

“He just ate three pieces of cake,” Pepper said, eyes wide.

“We’ve got to do what Agnes says,” Crowley said mock-mournfully. “It’s the rule of the house. She saved our lives, you know. This biscuit could be critical to our survival.”

Warlock sighed heavily. “If that’s the rule, then I’ll just have to endure it,” he said, raising a hand to his forehead as if he were feeling faint. “Bring me a cookie.”

Aziraphale was still staring bewildered at the pages underneath. “What- what - “ he sputtered. “ Is this really… “

Warlock shrugged, having already taken a bite of his destined biscuit. “You’re the book expert, you tell me. I just found it in the basement at the London house.”

“I’ll… I’ll have to take a closer look,” Aziraphale murmured, standing, still staring into the box clutched in his hands. 

“Oh, we’ve lost him for the evening,” Crowley lamented.

“‘Salright. Let’s play that card game, huh?” Adam said.

“We definitely should,” Pepper agreed, looking at a few of the cards. 

“You had to hand that over right in the middle of the party, did you?” Crowley accused.

“What can I say?" Warlock shrugged. "I'm a drama major."

* * *

The game was perfect for the group because it allowed for dramatic people to have fun, but also took advantage of Jess's deadpan delivery and didn't put them on the spot too much. Soon they were laughing uproariously at the rude and seemingly nonsensical combinations of cards.

On his turns, Crowley read out the cards loudly and dramatically. “This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with extremely tight pants.” He nodded mock-solemnly. “Sounds about right.”

Aziraphale frowned in confusion as he wandered back into the room. “What kind of game is this, exactly?”

“Hey, you’re back!” Crowley grinned. “It’s a party game for horrible people. It did say.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I can’t afford to miss this, can I?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. What did your new book tell you?”

“It told me to go and play that unspeakable game with the others, because these words are fleeting but her words will always be there for me to pore over obsessively.” 

Crowley chuckled, and leaned into Aziraphale as the angel sat down next to him on the sofa. “That Agnes. Got a tongue on her.”

Aziraphale kissed him thoroughly before replying, “I do prefer yours.” 

Warlock wrinkled his nose.

Crowley gestured to the cards. “If you’re about to tell us we’re gross, I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on here, kiddo.”

Warlock sniggered. “You have a point.”

The game trailed off into idle conversation as the night went on, and when the couples of the group migrated to cuddling up against each other's sides, it seemed natural for Warlock to lean up against Pepper, and then for Pepper to start braiding his hair.

"Best birthday ever," he said contentedly.

"You know," said Adam, "I think you're right."


End file.
